


After The Bombs

by SugarFey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The doctor in the ward gave her an indulgent smile that did not quite meet his eyes. “He can’t hear very well,” he told her. “And he might have trouble speaking. But he can write.” </i>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a wartime romance, but now the war is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Bombs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Here I Dreamt I Was A Soldier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/925882) by [SugarFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey). 



> This is a sequel to my WWII Alternate Universe fic, 'Here I Dreamt I Was A Soldier,' but it also functions as a standalone. 
> 
> Inspired by the following prompt from the Be_Compromised Clint/Natasha Promptathon: _Natasha's a war bride, and Clint's a soldier._
> 
> Warnings: PTSD, combat related injuries, sexual references
> 
> Many thanks to Hufflepuffsneak for the beta!

Three weeks after Natasha moved in to a draughty attic room in a boarding house in London, a letter arrived in the post, bearing the address of an American convalescent hospital. They were Clint’s words but not in his hand, as if he had dictated to a nurse or some helpful volunteer, and Natasha read the letter standing at the kitchen table, one hand flat against the wood in case she needed to steady herself.

She boarded a train at two o’clock that afternoon and sat in the window seat of an empty compartment, watching burnt husks of buildings give way to trees and fields that reminded her of Bletchley Park.

The military hospital was grey, character-less and sterile. Nurses and doctors in starched uniforms filled the corridors and the smell of cleaning fluid stung her nose. It took a short while for Natasha to find the ward named in the letter, but finally she did.

The doctor in the ward gave her an indulgent smile that did not quite meet his eyes. “He can’t hear very well,” he told her. “And he might have trouble speaking. But he can write.”

She found Clint in a bed at the end of the ward, propped up on a pillow. White bandages were wrapped around his head, covering his ears. He stared straight at the space in front of him, giving no sign that he heard her approach even when Natasha was right beside his bed. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he jerked, startled.

Clint blinked furiously, his chest heaving under thin hospital pyjamas. Recognition dawned on his face and his breathing slowed. Natasha could see him swallow before his cracked lips opened. “You came,” he said slowly, his voice was cracked from disuse.

“Of course I did,” she replied, but realised it was a mistake when Clint’s face fell; panic flaring in his eyes, and Natasha cursed herself for forgetting what the doctor had told her only moments ago. He could not hear her.

She sat down in the chair next to his bed, hating how useless she felt.

Clint scribbled something on the chalk tablet on his lap.

_You wore that dress when we first met._

Natasha nodded, forcing herself to smile so she didn’t show how much his reactions shook her. She gestured towards the little tablet, silently asking for permission to take it.

Clint nudged the tablet towards her. Slowly, not wanting to startle him again, Natasha reached out for the tablet and the chalk. Years of typing at Bletchley helped her hands move almost independently of her eyes, so she studied his face as she wrote. The skin by his left eye was mottled with tiny healing cuts, and another large cut sliced over his nose and down his cheekbone.

 _I got your letters,_ she wrote.

Clint glanced at the soldier reading a magazine in the next bed, then took Natasha’s hand, bringing it to his lips. 

* * *

Natasha went to visit him a couple of days later, and again after that. She brought him books and always sat on his right, because the doctors told her the hearing in that ear was not quite as damaged as the left. She read him bits of the paper when he could hear her and wrote him messages on his tablet when he couldn’t. Sometimes Clint held her hand and once he kissed her cheek, and slowly, slowly he began to speak.

“I grew up in the circus,” he told her.

Natasha was not sure whether to believe him. “That sounds like a story,” she said carefully, watching to make sure he was hearing her voice.

Clint’s face darkened and she could feel him pulling away. “Not one you’d like to hear.”

The next weekend Natasha found him in the grounds outside the ward, sitting slumped on a bench. The doctor had ordered him to get some fresh air.

He smiled when she kissed his cheek, and reached out to link their fingers together. “Does it take you long?” he asked softly. “To get here, I mean.”

Natasha shrugged, tracing the calluses on his hands. “Not that long. I take the train.”

“It must be a pain. Coming all this way.”

She gave him a hard look. “Clint, what are you trying to say?”

Clint bowed his head. “I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“You’re not…” she started to say, not sure if he was hearing her.

“I’m going to be gone soon. Doesn’t matter if my hearing gets better, they’ll put me on a boat back to America. I can’t ask you to- You don’t owe me anything, Natasha.”

Anger flared within her, hot and sharp, because rage was better than hurt. “I know that.”

“I don’t want to feel like you have to be here because we--“

“Because what? Because we spent one night together three years ago? Is that what you’re worried about? Don’t worry, I expected nothing from you, then or now.”

“Then why are you here?” he said softly.

Natasha opened her mouth to snap something, but stopped. It was an honest question. He really didn’t know why she would want to visit him. “I’m here because I waited for every letter, and I didn’t know if you were alive. I’m here because I care, damn you. Wallow in self-pity if you want, but don’t insult me. If the time we had and the letters were just so you could relieve your urges and brag to your friends, tell me now.”

“No, Natasha, God,” he burst out, grabbing her hand and holding it tight. “It wasn’t like that, I swear. It meant more than that, _you_ mean more to me, fuck.”

“Then don’t treat me like I don’t know what I want.” 

* * *

It was raining when Natasha returned home from another day of typing letters and making tea while her employer, Mr Andrews, called her a ‘good girl’ and stared at her rump. She found a telegram on the floor outside her door, damp from the rain. Tearing the envelope open, she saw that it was from Clint.

Three days later she stood on the platform at the train station, looking out for a tell-tale uniform among the crowds of people spilling out of the carriages. For a moment she thought there might be a mistake, that his leave had been cancelled or worse, he had changed his mind about meeting her, but then a man with a briefcase stepped out of the way and there he was, grinning like he had never gone to war.

She did not run to him or throw her arms around his neck, because that was not her way. Instead she smiled and waited for him to come to her and place his hands on her waist.

Natasha tipped her head to the side coquettishly. “How much time do you have?”

He kissed her deeply. “Not enough.”

They went for lunch at a pub and then slowly walked in the direction of Natasha’s flat. Clint bumped her with his shoulder and she bumped him back, until finally he held out his arm and she took it, looping her hand around his forearm.

They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, until they reached Natasha’s building. “Come upstairs,” she said. “I’ll make tea.”

* * *

 

In her tiny room she pushed him down onto a chair and climbed into his lap, tea forgotten on the table. Her heart beat faster as she placed her hands on his shoulders, nerves and desire warring within her. Three years and they had only been intimate once. She was not naïve enough to believe he hadn’t been with other women in that time, especially in France when the war was nearing its end and emotions were running high.

Clint gazed up at her, a smile playing on his mouth. “You okay?”

Natasha took his tone as a challenge and kissed him fiercely, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip as want and lust won out.

He mouthed at her breast while her fingers worked her top button. She placed a hand on his cheek and tilted his head back, holding his gaze. “Look at me, Clint,” she purred, undoing her buttons. “You don’t need to hear. Just look at me.”

Clint nodded, his breath hitching. She undid her shirt and he leant forward to kiss every inch of skin as it was revealed, until finally the creamy cloth fell to the floor. Natasha unhooked her brassiere, leaving herself bare, and Clint’s hands slid over her body, caressing her back, cupping her breasts. He brushed his lips over her left nipple, teasingly, and Natasha shuddered, nearly crying out when he began to suckle at the stiff peak.

She rocked against him, biting her lip at the friction between her legs, and Clint grunted his approval, placing one hand on her hip to guide her. “Can I take you to bed?” he murmured, capturing her earlobe between his teeth.

Natasha leant down and spoke clearly into his right ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Clint slid his hands under her rear and Natasha quickly grasped what he wanted to do. She wrapped her legs around him as best she could and hung on to his shoulders, taking a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough cotton shirt against her breasts.

She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the salty scent of his skin. Then she felt his fingers tighten on her thighs and he was lifting her up as he stood.

He had almost straightened his legs when she felt his body falter, his hands slipping. Quickly she slid her legs down so she could land on the floor and grip his shoulders to steady him. He hunched forward, his breath quickening.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“It’s all right,” she said soothingly, keeping her hand on his back. But she was shaken, and wondered if this had all been a bad idea. “What do you need?”

“I need you,” he pleaded. “I’m fine now. I just need you.”

She took his hand and led him to the narrow bed by the far wall. Clint squeezed her fingers, and he seemed to be breathing easier. Natasha kept hold of his hand until he was seated on the edge of the bed. “I have a prophylactic,” she said, sliding the drawer in the bedside table open and showing him the packet.

“Oh.” Clint blinked; then leant forward to take the packet from her. “I like that you still plan ahead.”

“It’s my job.” Natasha stood in front of him, almost touching his knees. Mindful of his eyes on her, she slowly undid the button of her skirt and let it fall and pool at her feet. She heard Clint’s breath catch and she rewarded him by sliding down her drawers until she was wearing nothing but her stockings.

Clint let out a slow whistle. “God, you’re beautiful.”

She let a smile play on her lips, her hair falling over her shoulder in a way she knew appealed to him. “Are you going to keep talking or do you want to show me?”

Clint grinned broadly and reached for her. “C’mere.”

Natasha fell down onto the bed next to him with a laugh, her eyes drinking him in as he quickly stripped off his clothing. He took her in his arms and kissed and stroked her until she was slick and shaking against him, and when she was aching with want he positioned himself between her legs. She couldn’t help the hiss that escaped her lips when he pushed into her. “Sorry,” Clint panted, bracing himself above her. “Should I stop?”

Natasha shook her head, kissing him. Clint moved slowly in small, gentle thrusts, pausing now and then to kiss or caress her as Natasha’s body stretched to accommodate him. Finally he was fully seated within her and Natasha gasped at the sensation, riding on the edge of pleasure and pain.

“You okay?” he rumbled, stilling.

She nodded, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Yes, oh, yes.”

“All right.” Clint kissed her, and he started to move. 

* * *

Natasha took Clint to see St Pauls, but he wasn’t one for churches, so they walked along the Thames until Clint came across a ruined house that made him stop dead in the street, and Natasha knew it was time to turn back. They ate lunch at home and spent the afternoon learning each other’s bodies instead.

“I dreamed of seeing you like this,” he said, tracing the curve of her breast.

“Like this?” Natasha arched her back, crumpling the sheets under her palms. She’d seen the grainy photographs and prints the soldiers passed between them; she knew how to put on a show.

“Sure. But more…” Clint caught one of her curls in his fingers. “Out there, it was good to, you know, think of you alive back here? Don’t have anyone else back home, so. Forget it.” He sunk his hand into her hair and kissed her hungrily, rolling on top of her. Then there was no more talking. 

* * *

She tried to spot the pattern in their courtship and could not find one, except all their moments together during the war had existed in the pauses, the intervals between his service and her endless nights of unbroken codes. The dances, the kisses in streets dark with blackout screens, the stolen hour in her room when she had given herself to him for the first time, those moments were like dreams or scenes from film reels. Now after the war she was left with a new reality, fragile and salty-sweet.

She had seen enough soldiers to take a guess about the origin of his injuries, if she wanted, could add up the observable clues and figure out just where his unit would have been. Years ago she would have been eager to use her skills, treating each scar on his body as a map, cross-referencing with lines of code. Perhaps she was no longer the same person as before the war. Was anyone?

On their last night Natasha boiled water for dinner while Clint sat at the table and chopped parsnips and potatoes, surrounded by the weak light cast by the lamp. When Natasha turned Clint was watching their shadows move towards each other on the plaster wall.

“I wish I could take you dancing,” he murmured.

“Maybe one day,” Natasha said gently as she sat down. Clint did not react. Not knowing if he’d heard her, she wrote the words out on the chalk tablet and touched his shoulder.

Clint flicked his eyes over the tablet and shook his head, his jaw clenched. “My balance is fucked. I can’t...” He pushed his chair back with a screech and scrambled to his feet. Natasha reached out to steady him, but he moved out of her reach.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“You just said your balance is fucked,” Natasha returned sharply.

“What? What did you say?” He was shouting now, the look in his eyes going from anger to panic in an instant.

His hand flailed in the air as if he was trying to reach the table, but missed, his legs giving way. “Natasha,” he hissed. “Help—“

Chilled, Natasha raced forward, grabbing his arm but not soon enough to stop him from collapsing to the floor.

“Fuck,” he forced out, curling up into a ball, his whole body trembling.

Natasha wrapped her arms around him, wishing there was anything she could say to make it right.

* * *

Lying in the dark, she placed her hand on his chest and felt his heart beat. “My mother died two years ago,” she confessed. “My father remarried. I haven’t seen him since the wedding. Don’t really care to.”

“Any other family?”

She shrugged. Her relatives in Russia would have been lucky to survive the war. She thought of the girls at Bletchley, the closest thing she had to sisters, now scattered across Britain, unable to ever speak of the nights they spent hunched together over codes in freezing huts. The war was won, but lives were in ruins, crumbling and burnt until nothing remained but the ashes of what was once called home.

She shook her head. “I haven’t got anyone else.”

He kissed her temple and covered her hand with his. “You have me,” he breathed.

His words were overwhelming and Natasha curled into him, taking long, shuddering breaths. “I wish you could stay a while longer.”

Clint bowed his head. “You know I can’t.”

He pressed his lips to her palm and Natasha closed her eyes at the sensation. Then his mouth was on hers, first soft and tender, then hungry and hard, heat tinged with desperation. Natasha clutched his shoulders and kissed him back with equal ferocity and need, her mind awash with emotions she could not even begin to name.

“There’s a way—“ Clint gasped between kisses, “God --- Tasha, you could come with me.”

The words cut through her haze and she pulled back abruptly. “Clint, what are you saying?”

“What I mean is…” he broke off, his cheeks turning pink. “Fuck, I’m doing this all wrong. I mean, we could get married.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he stumbled. “Forget I said anything—“

“Clint.” She took his face in her hands, making sure he could hear every word. “Ask me again.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Will you marry me?”

She nodded, blinking back unexpected tears. “Yes.” 

* * *

They were married by a registrar who heard Clint’s accent and muttered something about the bloody Yanks under his breath. They consummated the union in a hurried frenzy, coming together in Natasha’s bed one last time.

One hour later Clint was on the train back to his base, and from there to America. Natasha gave him a goodbye kiss and he promised over and over that he would make the arrangements for her to join him as soon as he could.

Months later she stepped off the ship in New York and into his arms again.

* * *

 

When Clint took her to his—their—apartment, he put on a record and held out his hands to her as a soft ballad began to play. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ve been practicing my dancing.” 

Natasha placed one hand on his shoulder and linked their fingers with the other, and it was so like the first time they danced together, years ago and a world away. They had gone from a crowded dance hall to a tiny kitchen with a war between them, and they were older now and frayed around the edges, but still whole.

They turned slowly to the music, lost in each other, until Clint stumbled towards the end of the song. 

“I’m sorry,” he started, but Natasha stopped him by placing her finger on his lips.

“It’s all right. We have enough time.”


End file.
